Mercia has been widowed for many years. Her husband Bertie was buried in the South China Sea. He died on a cruise. She never showed any sign of wanting another husband. She takes holidays at regular intervals – organised tours by coach or train – although she’s given up on cruises for obvious reasons. She always looks nicely put together.

I sit opposite her and my heart’s beating so hard that I can hear it thump in my ears like waves on the beach.

She smiles. ‘You’re looking …’ She doesn’t finish the observation. Something has caught her eye and her smile fades.

I know immediately even without looking that my purple frock is showing. I cover my knees quickly with my robe.

Mercia raises her eyebrows. She doesn’t meet my eyes for a few long moments while she keeps her thoughts under control.

I gulp my tea down quickly, even though it’s hot. Suddenly, I can’t breathe properly. My ribcage won’t expand. I’m suffocating. The frock is too tight.

I see black spots floating before my eyes, just a few at first, as if it’s snowing soot. It turns into a blizzard that blots Mercia out. I can feel my muscles weaken.

I’m dying.

I imagine the voices of the paramedics: this old guy wearing a frock so tight he suffocated himself.

Concerned, Mercia’s voice comes from a great distance. ‘Are you all right, Kim?’

I shake my head frantically and tear off the dressing gown.

She gets to her feet and I plead with her, ‘Mercia, don’t go! Could you unfasten it? I can’t breathe!’ I’m struggling to stand, gasping shallowly like an old fool while Mercia comes behind me and tugs at the zip fastener.

‘Can’t get a grip on it; I’ve got a touch of arthritis,’ she says grimly. ‘Have you got a paperclip? Or a shoelace?’

The blizzard of spots blots out the room and I can feel my thoughts draining from my head.

‘Oh! Hang on there, Kim,’ she says. She dashes off and comes back with a pair of scissors. ‘Hold still!’ I can feel the cold blade against my chest as she cuts straight down the bodice of the frock, through my chest hair.

Released, I gulp air in gratefully and my ribs expand. I sit down, panting and flexing my shoulders, and the spots gradually clear from my vision like midges in sunlight. I’m too ashamed to look at her.

As I put my dressing gown back on, Mercia starts to giggle.

‘Honestly, I don’t know how you ever got into it,’ she says.

She’s laughing at me. I look down at my white-haired chest. Pathetic. I close my dressing gown and knot the belt tight.